short fuse
by heartstrung
Summary: During a bomb-defusing mission, Roach helps Ghost. Now it's time to return the favour. Slash. M for EXPLICIT CONTENT and language.


**AN:/** Okay, so I started this in, like, May. Why the hell am I finishing it _now_? (But hey, at least I did!) Ugh, this is long, long, _long_ overdue since MW3 came out last month. And now I'm too lazy to come up with anything else to say.

**Warnings:** This fic is rated M for _mature, explicit content _and _slash_. Don't say I didn't warn you.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Call of Duty franchise. If I did, everyone in this fic would be alive and livng, damnit.

_short fuse__*****_

"Goddamnit," Roach muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow.

"Calm down, Roach." The comm crackled to life with MacTavish's lilt.

"Then you try to defuse this fucking bomb. This piece of shit is counting down fast and it's not like I have a tank of goddamned liquid nitrogen to freeze it. Plus, I don't need your damn voice in my ear, so shut the fuck up." He knew he shouldn't talk to his captain like that, but the pressure was getting too much to handle. His fingers had been intricately moving through the bomb, and the combination of a Scottish accent and the ticking of the bomb didn't exactly appealing to him at this moment in time. Fortunately for Roach, the Scotsman was hush. He knew the stress of being in the position of the newest recruit.

The sergeant was breathing heavily, carefully balanced on his toes, kneeling with his arms pressed against each side of the TNT-filled death clock. Sometimes, he really hated his job. He hated the fact that he was best fucking bomb technician in the 141 after Ozone, who he hated with a _burning passion _because _he_ the infirmary after a near-fatal gunshot to the shoulder that almost hit his heart. Lucky bastard.

Roach growled lowly to himself. Now was the part the American absolutely abhored: The cutting of the wires. He whisked out a pair of wire cutters from his back pocket and examined the web. It was the red wire he cut first, right? Wait, no - oh, he what did he know? Roach's mind went blank and he hesitated. No, it was the blue, he was sure. His hands were slick and clammy, gloves lost somewhere in the favela, and it made it difficult to hold the cutters as he gapped the few centimetres between him and the bomb. When he clamped down on the blue rubber casing, Gary almost stopped midway to the actual wire, and then forced himself to cut all the way through. When death didn't sing in his ear, he let out a sigh of relief; he hadn't been blown to smithereens.

These improvised bombs were slightly different than those he had worked with before, but the sergeant became more and more confident as the seconds passed, cutting each colour wire with only a split-second's debate. Until he came to the final two: Red and green.

Ever see those movies where the hero and/or heroine have to defuse a bomb to save an entire town of people they don't really know, yet want to anyway because it gives them a sense of accomplishment and the fact that they had just bested the devious, maniacal workings of the bad guy? Though that was probably much more long-winded than it need to be, it was the way Roach felt. There was a whole favela full of innocent (and the not-quite-so) people about to be blown off the face of the earth if he didn't stop the countdown. He wished he could just shoot the fucking thing and get it over with, but MacTavish had said something earlier:

"_Shoot it, and we're all goin' down."_

At least Gary's death would be quick seeing as he was practically on top of the bomb – the sergeant mentally slapped himself for thinking something like that. Ghost must be rubbing off on him.

The timer kept on ticking, and he had yet to defuse the bomb. Honestly, he had been hoping to transfer the explosive and have it detonate in a safer area. But dwindling number of seconds he had told him otherwise and there were still two wires left to cut. Roach inhaled shakily to calm himself; he would be no help to the team anxiety-stricken or dead.

"Okay, Gary, you got this. Just one little cut and you'll be in there clear." Oh, dear God, he was talking to himself.

Right then there was a spluttering in his ear as the comm burst to life. "Green wire, Roach."

For once the American followed his captain's orders without hesitation, taking the wire cutters and snipping the green wire cleanly in half and held his breath. When there weren't any shards of shrapnel and concrete pummelling his body or beeping narrating the final seconds of his life, Gary assumed he was in the clear. He pushed himself off the dusty ground and hurried to the door, his ACR in one hand and the dead bomb in the other; stuff this dangerous shouldn't be left in the hands of the enemy. "Ghost, let's go." The Brit, who'd been standing guard outside the door, nodded and took off ahead of him.

The pair dodged a wave of bullets as the militia shot at them as they exited the dilapidated hut. Ghost returned fire with his M4A1, taking them down with a quick pull of the trigger while Roach followed closely behind, concentrating more on keeping the object with him rather than firing rounds into skulls. That doesn't mean he didn't unload a few magazines on the pesky Brazilians though.

"MacTavish, where the bloody 'ell are you? The militia is closing in, but" – Ghost took down another foe – "we're at the LZ and there's no sign of the Pave Low!"

He could see why the Brit was so manic: The number of armed soldiers was overwhelming, even for a Task Force member of Ghost's calibre. They were everywhere – appearing in nearly every door and window, crowding the balconies, lurking around corners.

And maybe, just maybe, Roach feared for both his and his comrade's lives.

"Ghost, head to Hotel Four instead. You'll have to be quick about it – fuel is running low."

The lieutenant groaned. That LZ was almost a quarter of a mile away; about 1320 feet of bullets, grenades, and screams in Portuguese or whatever language they spoke. Foreign languages had never been the sergeant's strong suit.

Ghost loaded his assault rifle with a fresh cartridge while they were ducked behind the burnt-out shell of a white truck. "Let's go, bug. Pocket the bomb and ready your weapons. We're about to enter Hell on my go." Roach shoved the dead explosive into one of his many pockets and reloaded his gun, making sure he had enough ammo to last him the rest of the day.

A pair of blues eyes peeked from behind Ghost's orange shades. "Go!"

The two tore into the figurative Hell. Their guns were afire as they rained hellfire onto the militia, puncturing stomachs and skulls with the cold bite of metal.

Along the way, Gary earned himself a few bullet grazes, one of which marred his left cheek; managed to get bruised all over his torso where the Kevlar vest covered from the impact of the gun metal pellets; and had a round lodged into his leg that caused a slight limp. He wasn't worried about the bullet in his thigh. It'd be removed and cleaned at base before an infection could set in. His eyes darted to his companion briefly, gauging for any potentially fatal or slowing injury. From what he saw, there was none, so he continued his rampage through the abandoned houses.

There were some things he recognised on his way to the landing zone: A bright and colourful blanket that was likely woven from a material similar to wool or alpaca from Peru, a lone, rusted jungle gym in the middle of what seemed to be a sort of cul-de-sac, and a small market. They all marked the way to the open meadow, where dust was being kicked up and flowers were bending in the breeze created by the Pave Low's whirling propellers.

"Almost there," he muttered under his breath. Roach couldn't wait to be safe – well, _safer_ – inside the steel body of the helicopter.

Tall grass rose in the distance, barely noticeable among the mass of cluttered buildings. He quickened his pace. They broke into the field, blazing their artillery and bloodied with what was most likely a mixture of their own blood and the Brazilians'. Gary was hoping, practically praying, he and Ghost would make it into the aircraft without anymore rounds aimed at their heads.

He spoke too soon.

A _boom! _rang in his ears and he ducked to dodge the bullet.

If only it was aimed at him.

Simon Riley grunted as the bullet buried itself in his calf. Crimson leaked from the wound, dripping in a steady stream down his leg. The shot caused the lieutenant to limp, slowing him down greatly.

"Ghost!" the young American cried, almost sounding shocked. It's not everyday the Brit bled like that in the battlefield, let alone gained a limp.

Ghost made a vague hand gesture at him. "I'm fine, bug. Keep going!"

Several metres away was the heli, doors wide open with a Scotsman encouraging them to "go, go, _go_!"

"You heard the captain. Go, you pest!" Ghost's limp pained him, but it didn't show in his voice.

Roach faltered. Should he save himself and possibly leave the skull-faced man to die, or turn around and rescue him, whether it put his life in more peril than it already was? The solution was easily and quickly made.

Despite his protests, Ghost leaned into Gary for support. Faster than before, they were making more progress together than he was when he was hobbling along on his own. He was reluctant to admit it, but he owed the bug now.

"Are you moppets deaf? Get your arses in the damn chopper before they" – the captain motioned behind them to the growing militia – "tear you to pieces."

"We heard you the first time, John," Ghost replied snappily. He and Sanderson were a hands breadth away from the metal cage. MacTavish helped Roach, who was much lighter and smaller compared to the monstrous size of the captain himself and the not-much smaller-lieutenant, haul the Brit into the Pave Low. Ghost glared at his CO and said, "I could've got in myself."

"Sure, Simon, sure you could've." John laughed and turned to the pilot. "Take us to base, Nikolai."

**.x.**

There was a knock on Ghost's door. He rolled off the mattress, careful not to put too much pressure on his injured leg, and opened it to see the FNG. "Hey, Ghost," Roach greeted him amiably, complete with a smile. He stuck his head in the room and looked around. "Whatcha doing?"

Ghost shoved Roach's head back in the hall. "Reading," he said, pointing to the book he'd set on the desk.

"With your mask and sunglasses on?" Roach asked sceptically.

The Brit shot him an odd look. "Yes, why not?"

The American shrugged and shook his head. "I dunno. Just seems a bit strange to me, that's all. That isn't the reason I came here."

Even though Roach couldn't see it beneath his balaclava, Simon raised an eyebrow. He stood in the doorway and crossed his arms. "Then what is?"

When Roach looked back up at him, there was a wicked smile on his face. "You owe me," he stated. Ghost swore internally. "And word on the street," he began, leaning in as if to tell a secret, "is that your bed is empty tonight." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Sorry to disappoint you" – Simon brought his mouth just outside Gary's ear, repeating what the sergeant did – "but I'm afraid I don't swing that way." He stood back and scanned the man's expression, searching for some sort of hint of sadness or embarrassment, but Roach kept on grinning at him with the Devil's smile.

"Ah, I have it on _good word_ from the Caps that you _do_, in fact, swing that way. And we both know that MacTavish isn't one to lie." Roach subtly pushed his way into the room and shut the door behind him, clicking the lock. "He may have also hinted at some wet dreams about a _certain someone_." He stood in front of Ghost with his arms parallel to the floor, palms out, and the Brit appraised the younger soldier.

"You're in your dress blues," he pointed out, an accusation barely lacing his words.

"There's always something about a man in uniform," Roach explained dreamily. He took Ghost in with hungry eyes. "I would very much like to see your birthday suit."

Ghost slammed the smaller man against the wall and smashed his lips against Roach's. There was a sigh from the sergeant as Gary touched the hem of Simon's balaclava, causing the other man to growl in warning and tighten the grip on Roach's hips. Roach pulled closer to the Brit and rubbed up against him, surprising him with a half hard-on. He took this opportunity to switch positions – Ghost up against the wall instead of him. The XO didn't think kindly of this and pushed Gary to the desk and gave him a bruising kiss, his tongue sliding into the willing mouth of Gary Sanderson, who had his back pressed to the smooth wood of the lieutenant's desk. His hands slid up under the mask and grasped the tight curls growing on the back of Ghost's head. Simon in turn let his hands wander up the muscular chest of his subordinate and twisted the nipples of Roach's pecs. His body was lifted slightly when Roach arched into him, a mewl of pleasure escaping his rose-red lips, and Ghost unbuttoned the jacket and let it fall to the floor along with Roach's shirt.

"My turn," breathed Roach. He lifted the shirt over the Brit's head and marvelled at the black ink that decorated his shoulders.

Ghost grinned, "You should see the ones on my back," and fell onto his bed.

Gary curled his fingers more tightly as he lay across the bigger man and began to peel the mask from his face when a hand reached out and snatched up his wrist. "The mask goes last," Ghost growled, and he started to undo Roach's pants and they too were quickly discarded on the floor. Then with deft hands he unzipped his own and flipped them over so that Gary was on the bottom.

"Holy mother of fuck," said the American, staring unbelievably at Simon's rigid manhood. Ghost only smirked and said, "Open up."

Roach spread his legs and the Brit grabbed a bottle of lubricant from the top drawer of his desk. He coated himself and then began to prep the sergeant. The lids of Roach's eyes shuttered as Simon pushed into him with a finger, and then another, and another. By the third one, his head was thrown back and his mouth was open in a silent scream of elation. "Don't cum just yet," Ghost murmured, "there's still one more." Roach was empty for only a second when something larger filled his hole.

Ghost penetrated him slowly, unsure of what pace to go at, and happily sped up when the American claimed it was too slow. "_There's_ the ticket," Roach hissed, lifting his hips to more of Simon inside of him. "Geez, how much is _left_?"

"What, too big for you?" sneered Ghost.

He scoffed. "Yeah, right. Speed it up," his voice hitched when Ghost buried himself deeper, quicker. Fingers laced themselves around the back of the mask and Gary pulled off Ghost's mask in one fell swoop. His gaze roamed over him, memorising the planes of Simon's real face and he said, "There's a sight I never thought I – _Ahhh!_" Roach trailed off when Ghost hit the sweet spot, his mind and body flying into ecstasy, sparks of white bursting into his vision. "Right there, right there!" he cried, breathless.

Ghost kept on pounding him into the mattress until Roach reached his climax. "_Simon_!" he gasped, spilling a pearlescent mess over the bed. The Brit wasn't long after, ejaculating inside of his lover. He lowered himself on the bed, exhausted, next to Roach.

"I knew this favour was worth it," muttered Roach, looking blankly at the other wall. Ghost _hmmphed_. "And now I know that MacTavish was lying when he said you had a short _fuse_."

**AN:/** Uhm, review, please? And maybe favourite? *bats eyelashes*

Oh, and everything I know about EODs and bomb techs is from the internet and _Bomb Patrol: Afghanistan_ on G4 (the TV channel). The season finale is next Tuesday! *girly squeal*


End file.
